


Kelvin's Drumsolo

by EdilMayHampsen



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Core Mechanics, Fluff and Humor, just some silly lil romantic bs you know the deal, new team babey and I'm already writing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdilMayHampsen/pseuds/EdilMayHampsen
Summary: The Kelvin's have a jam
Relationships: Kelvin andante, Kelvin drumsolo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Kelvin's Drumsolo

**Author's Note:**

> If you say me spell andante's name wrong through this whole fic no you didn't ❤

It’s Andante’s kind of stage. A rocky outcropping in a part of the core that’s still roughing it with the whole nature vibe. Brown stone laced through with streaks of silver, hot with the earth’s pressure like it always is in Down. Andante’s sweating. But he sits there stiffly gripping the neck of his guitar, feeling the familiar way the strings rub up against his calluses, too stiff to even wipe his forehead.

It’d be a lie to say the heat is the only reason Andante’s dripping like a faucet. Their performance today will be the first time he’s seen Drumsolo since the last divorce. Which was, admittedly, just the previous monday and, admittedly, all for show after Andante cracked his last engagement bat right down the middle during practice. It happens often, a cycle of bat-building, marriage, domestic bliss and the inevitable flaw in the bat, then divorce. They _could_ break tradition and keep their engagement bats above the mantle place like most mechs do, or just not go through with the divorce every time, but where's the fun in that? Where’s the fire? 

He eyes Drumsolo without turning away to the audience. His ex-husband’s eight-legged chassis takes him to the drumkit and lowers him down, raising four of those legs to help play. Drumsolo shoots him a wicked grin, one that splits his face like a knife-slash, or a neon art-deco of a lightning bolt, something that screams _rad_. Half of Drumsolo’s hair sticks up and the other half is stuck damply to his neck, a copper red Andante loves to run his hands through. He fiddles with a chord to get the urge out of his fingers, a murmur passes over the crowd. 

In response, Drumsolo hits a riff, flowery and too fast to keep up with, ending on a cymbal that rings for a good ten seconds after he’s done. Someone in the audience wolf-whistles. 

Andante tips his head back and runs his fingers through his hair. That’s their dichotomy, half personality in the real sense and half personality in the sense of performance. Andante keeps it cool with chord progressions that feel like home and driving silently down the highway at sunset with the windows down, or so he’s told. He isn’t into himself, doesn’t seem to know when he’s being awesome. (Emphasis on seem. Cool recognises cool.) Drumsolo on the other hand throws his whole body around, reaching for a drum farther than his arm span and getting back to center faster than you might think possible. Drumsolo _screams_ when he knows he’s got it, and the contrast between then makes a genre that's all their own. 

Critics say it’s no wonder they can’t keep their marriage together, but they don’t know the whole story. Performance forms the people and the people perform. It’s meaningless and it means everything. Andante takes a deep breath as Drumsolo’s familiar rhythm takes its rightful place in his head, making him tap his foot to the tempo Drumsolo sets. 

He pours memories of a beach on the surface into his next progression, something that sounds like a boardwalk. It’s fun. Audience members nod their head, some sway. One woman in a white dress kicks off her shoes and stands up to dance. That gets a smile out of Andante. 

Drumsolo picks up what he’s putting down, and starts with a rhythm that rolls and crashes like the tide coming in and splitting into perfect, white-fractal rapids. Then, just to be bitter, Andante doesn’t let the sentence resolve, instead ending on a flat that gives the feeling of a broken heart, something tender, and he hammers on a few notes, really making that guitar _yearn_.

Drumsolo speaks the language. To anyone else it just sounds like a jam, but to them is a speechless conversation, references to their favorite songs and notes thrown in that mean something. Questions are asked and answers are given. Andante earns himself a concerned look for that last bit, and a triplet that mimic’s Drumsolo’s tone when he whispers ‘You okay?’ on nights when Andante can’t sleep, holding one hand just above Andante’s skin, cause not all of his alters are down with touch. 

Andante hits a sharp, sweet major with a reassuring twinkle of a melody. Drumsolo relaxes.

They groove, asking about eachother’s weeks in pre-defined motifs and answering with subtle shrugs and tunes. It feels good to get lost in the dance of the music, feels like shedding your shoes after a long, greasy day, or speaking the language your mother raised you on. It’s home. It’s love. 

And as the night goes on, the lights in The Core dimming as they always do to keep circadian rhythms on-beat, Drumsolo signals for his moment. 

Andante shifts into something simple and easy to keep up with, coming down from their constant time-signature flip-flopping to land squarely in 4/4. Drumsolo picks up with a few false starts, and then laughs a big-ol’ victory cry and gets into it. A continuous, contradicting stream of beats that mimic and mock itself before switching gears like a drunken dancer with eight left feet. 

Andante stops playing to stare, losing his cool for the dopey, love-struck expression he gets on nights like this, nights that remind him of their first jam all too vividly, when he knew this guy they put him on-stage with at the open mic night was gonna be more than just a guy. All of Drumsolo’s hair is sticking to him now, and it ain’t pretty, but damn, it’s _him_. 

Andante stands from his chair. Drumsolo's still lost in his own little bubble of cracking drumsticks, pedals and music. Drumsolo doesn't notice him creeping over, doesn't notice Andante pressing into his space, hardly notices how close Andante leans in until he puts a hand on Drumsolo's shoulder and the sound comes petering to a pathetic little stop. 

The silence is louder than the immaterial plane splitting into infinity. 

Drumsolo's big brown eyes meet his, flicker down to Andante's lips, and back up again. He leans in, close enough that he's got Andante puckering like a fish, close enough that their cheeks brush together, and then he keeps going right past, whispering a single word into Andante's ear:

" _Psycheee._ " 

Andante gets a crash course in 'why, exactly, this man is your _ex_ -husband' when Drumsolo hits a ba-dum _-tisss_ and pulls a silly face that makes him look like he's just been electrocuted. The man has the gall to work his chuckle into the groove and keep soloing. 

Two can play at that game. Andante mutes his strings and chops some abomination of a series of strums that no one in their right mind could call a rhythm, throwing Drumsolo off and forcing him to stop. He gets a curious look, from both Drumsolo and the audience at large. 

Andante just tosses his head, long hair falling in the other direction, and signals to a stagehand waiting in the wings. He whispers an order in their ear and they bustle off, returning with a microphone. It turns on with a pop and a hiss of feedback, before the stage hand adjusts it. 

Andante can sing like most guitarists can sing, which is to say _good enough_. He doesn't do it often outside the shower, Drumsolo either — when they need a vocalist they tend to outsource the task. Which is why the people lean in with interest when Andante tests the mic, as if he's magnetic. Which he isn't — not currently. 

"I'd like to play a little something I prepared just in case," Andante starts, in a soft, breathy tone that you gotta pay attention to here, "I wrote it for a special someone." 

In his peripheral vision, Drumsolo's posture boats with pride so, to be spiteful, Andante ends the sentence with a wink aimed at the woman in the white dress. She goes red from head to toe and back again.

Andante plays the opening chords, pauses to clear his throat, and plays them again. "I call this one, ' _Built you a bat, you asscheek, but you can get it next week._ '"

It's Andante's turn to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> I am kindly reminding the blaseball fandom to use Image IDs in maincord or face my wrath—my wrath is just being really annoying about it.


End file.
